Robert felt a catch in his breath.  He had often seen Quebec, great and beautiful, in his dreams, but the reality was equal to it and more.  To the American of that day Quebec was one of the vital facts of life.  From that fortress issued the daring young French soldiers of fortune who led the forays against New York and New England.  It was the seat of the power that threatened them continually.  Many of the Bostonnais, seized in their fields, had been brought here as prisoners to be returned home only after years, or never.  From this citadel, too, poured the stream of arms and presents for the Indians who were to lie in ambush along the English border, or to make murderous incursions upon the villages.  From it flowed the countless dangers that had threatened the northern provinces almost continually for a century and a half.  The Bostonnais themselves, mark of the initiative and energy that were to distinguish them so greatly later on, made a mighty effort against it, and doubtless would have succeeded, had they been allowed to carry the fight to a finish.

No man from New York or New England could look upon it without a mingling of powerful emotions.  It was the Carthage to their Rome.  He admired and yet he wished to conquer.  He felt that permanent safety could never come to the northern border until the Bourbon lilies ceased to float over the great fortress that looked down on the St. Lawrence.  Robert was not the only one who felt strong emotion.  Tayoga stood beside him, his nostrils expanding and his gaze fierce: 

“Stadacona!” he said under his breath, “Stadacona of the Ganeagaono, our great brother nation!”

But the emotion of de Galisonniere was of pleasure only.  His eyes sparkled with joy and admiration.  He was delighted to come back to Quebec, the gay city that he beheld through the eyes of youth and glowing recollections.  He knew the corruption and wickedness of Bigot and of Cadet and of Pean and of the whole reckless circle about the Intendant, but Quebec, with its gallant men and its beautiful women; its manners of an Old World aristocracy and its air of a royal court, had many pleasures, and why should youth look too far into the future?

And yet another stood up and looked at Quebec, with emotions all his own, and unlike those of the three who were so young.  Father Drouillard, tall in his black robe, gazed fixedly at the rock, and raised his hand in a gesture much like that with which he had cursed the chateau of Count Jean de Mezy.  His eyes were set and stern, but, as the sun fell in floods of burnished gold on the cathedral and the convents, his accusing look softened, became sad, then pitying, then hopeful.

“A wonderful sight, Father Drouillard,” said Willet, who stood at his elbow and who also gazed at Quebec with feelings quite his own.  “I’ve seen it before, but I can never see it too often.”

“Mr. Willet,” said the priest, “you and I are greater in years than these youths, and perhaps for that reason we can look farther into the future.  Youth fears nothing, but age fears everything.  You come to Quebec now in peace, and I trust that you may never come in war.  I can feel, nay I can see the clouds gathering over our two lands.  Why should we fight?  On a continent so vast is there not room enough for all?”